


Watch my back.

by KatofAsgard



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, F/M, Gen, Major character death - Freeform, Terminal Illnesses, angst like woah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatofAsgard/pseuds/KatofAsgard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dry my eyes, so you won't know.<br/>Dry my eyes, so I won't show.<br/>I know you're right behind me...<br/>And don't you let me go, let me go tonight.</p><p>o0o0o0o Lykke Li- Tonight o0o0o0o</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch my back.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first ever fic on AO3, and I'm a little scared.  
> I hope you like it!

On the 18th July, 2012, I go to the Doctor's with Clint. I go with him because he is scared. He's always been afraid of the Doctor's. It's why he never told anybody when he went deaf, and it's also why we always have our standard S.H.I.E.L.D physical assessment on the same day, rather than "because if somebody else is going to see my girlfriend shirtless, I'm damn well going to be there...", which is what he likes to tell people. I don't know why he is afraid of the Doctor's, and I have never asked, and that's just fine.  
He has more reason than usual to be scared, though, because this is not a standard physical, nor is it a gunshot wound, put out back, kick in the nuts from Tony, or kick in the face from me. It's not even any kind of intense cranial trauma. He's not in a coma, or in any kind of critical condition at all. Yet. His body's just gone a bit...wrong.  
And I find that more terrifying than anything.  
I don't let on, because I'm not supposed to be scared, because I am never scared, and that's why I can keep up with the other lunatics that make up the Avengers. I am fearless. Clint is scared all the damn time, but that's a secret. I don't see why it should be a secret, 'cause if he's afraid, but still fights, that makes him brave, and that makes him perfect.  
He's a pain in the ass, but he's perfect.  
I watch him as he explains, to a disconcertingly quiet physician, all the symptoms that have brought him here. I hate when people are too quiet, particularly when a doctor is too quiet. When a doctor is too quiet, that usually means there is a problem, as they are all too quick to chastise you if you've shown up and it's nothing.  
This doctor is silent as a morgue.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Of course, because he's Clint, he doesn't bother with any of the specifics. That's my forte. But I don't pay attention, because I can't pay attention, because this is my whole world and you've just set it on fire. I am rigid and unmoving and I think I'm going to throw up. I just stand there and I don't move. I don't even know if I'm blinking.  
Of course, also because he's Clint, and he's perfect, he is very brave. He seems loose and relaxed and content. He nods in all the right places, makes the right sort of sounds when he's asked questions. He's remarkably okay with everything.  
Enough of me is still in here that some of it sticks. Something up with his brain, and it's making his nerves go wrong, and that's what's making his leg act up. It's going to spread to his other limbs.  
But it's in his brain- a degenerative condition or he hit his head really hard and it's going to keep getting worse, something like that, I wasn't listening.  
Degenerative, I remember that.  
It's going to get worse.  
And worse.  
And then he's going to die.  
They give him two months, at the outside.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
We take a taxi back to the tower, which is a bad idea because it's rush hour, it's   
raining, and anybody who knows Manhattan would be able to see from a mile off that it's gridlocked to buggery, but we do it anyway. Clint hates the subway because it's underground, and underground is the furthest thing from the sky. He hates the sea for the same reason- the sea is as far as you can get from the sky without being under something. That's why we never go to the beach, even though I love to swim.  
When we get in the taxi, the driver tells us that it's going to take about three hours to get us where we want to go. I am fine with that, I tell him, because I am going to bill it to Tony anyway, and sitting in a taxi in silence, trying not to shoot anything, is basically the same thing that I would be doing at home, only if I was at home, I would not be in a taxi, and I would probably stop trying a lot sooner.  
I expect the journey to be made in silence, but Clint is pretty chirpy, and engages in an animated conversation with the driver, who has recognized him. Clint likes it when people recognize him, because people don't recognize him usually. I remember for his birthday last year I paid a lot of people to recognize him. I didn't tell him that I'd done it. I pretended I'd forgotten. They're talking about arrows, probably, if this guy knows Clint he's bound to be an arrow nut.  
I lean my forehead against the window and groan.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
When we arrive back at the tower, I head straight for the kitchen, and Clint follows me. I figured he'd want to just tell everybody, and get it over with, and if you're hoping to find everybody, the kitchen's your best bet.  
I hear a yelp and a thud behind me, and I see that he's fallen over. I don't pick him up, because he's a proud man, and I know he wants to get up on his own. When he doesn't, I get a bit worried, which is stupid. He's dying. Falling over is the least of his worries.  
"Uh... Tash? My.. my left leg's going... As well...."  
I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to breathe. I don't know anything.  
I have to guess. I don't normally guess. I do it because it's Clint, and for no other reason. I opt for my default setting- snarky bitch.  
"Geez, already? Lightweight..."  
I offer him a hand, but it's quickly apparent that it won't be enough. His right leg is all rigid again, and his left leg has frozen up in the thigh, leaving it floppy and useless from the knee down. I pick him up and carry him for a while. We wait outside the kitchen door for his limbs to right themselves, because he won't want to be seen like this.  
I'm right, because I'm always right, and almost everybody is in the kitchen, or on the sofa in the adjoining living room. There's something on the TV. Since Bruce is the one who's actually watching it, I know it must be an episode of Sherlock. Clint makes it to the sofa without incident, and flops there. He shuts off Sherlock with the remote. Bruce protests, and Clint responds by sticking a foot in his face and wiggling his toes.  
"Shut your face Brucie, we're watching a film tonight!" Clint teases.  
Bruce pushes the foot away, smiling placidly. He likes movie nights.  
I'm not looking, but I can feel that Steve has gotten up to leave. Clint feels it too, and sticks his leg over the sofa, using his foot to point at the door, and protests.  
"Woah woah woah, where do you think you're going? This is NOT an optional activity. Park it."  
Steve looks at me pleadingly, because he's no good at movie nights, but I shake my head.  
Everybody needs to be there. I won't make it any harder for Clint than it has to be.  
"I'll buy you pizza, kay?" I offer him as a form of appeasement.  
Then I go to fetch Tony, and, of course, the DVD. I opt for X-Men.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
After the film, I'm in stunned silence. I perch on the windowsill, and look idly out the window whilst everybody else finds someplace else to be. I know that Clint will be the last to leave because his legs have stopped working again.  
We both just sit there. I know he knows I'm pissed off at him, and I am, but I'm not really. I thought he was going to tell everybody, and then he didn't. But he did, and that's just the thing. He told everybody in a way that was just so damned Clint, that they didn't even notice.  
"Oh hey, how was the Doctor's?" Tony'd asked.  
"Oh, it sucked. They said I was going to die."  
Had been Clint's reply, and he was so cavalier about it that everybody had laughed, and that had been a positive outcome for him, because he doesn't like a fuss. Hell, if I hadn't been at the doctor's with him, he'd have probably just gone off to die quietly in the woods, and we'd've known nothing.  
I look out of the window, and at the lights of the city, and I want to see the stars, but I can't. All of the light from the city- headlights and floodlights and streetlights, goes up into the sky and gets reflected off particles in the atmosphere which means it gets bounced back down to Earth and gets in the way of the light coming from the stars, and that's called light pollution. I wonder idly if that ever made Clint feel boxed in. I know he loves the stars.  
I mellow at the thought, and decide to go pick him up off the couch. I carry him over to the windowsill, and we sit there facing each other.  
"Are we going to talk about this?" He says.  
"Hell no."  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
It takes about three days for the others to realise that Clint wasn't kidding, and, with the exception of Tony, they all come to me first.  
Steve's really intuitive, so he gets it right away. He comes to me first thing in the morning after the film night, and says he's sorry, and I tell him that now is really not the time. We should mourn when he's gone, not while he's here.  
Bruce finds out from Steve, and he doesn't say much. He just tells me he knows, and I say good.  
I decide to take out Thor to tell him on the second day. We go to "spar" in a forest, far away, and we don't come back until well into the evening. It takes that long to make him   
understand that this is not something to talk about.  
On the third day, Tony figures it out. I think he saw me carrying Clint about in the corridor or something. He's really obnoxious about it, but I think that's for the best, because Clint's much better with that then with emotional stuff. He just comes out with it over pizza -  
"Hey Legolas, you're really dying, huh?"  
And Clints says "Yup."  
And Tony says "Damn. Have a good one."  
And that's it. And I think that Tony knows Clint best, but he'll never admit it, because they like to say that they hate each other.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
It's about a week later that we have to give up on his legs. They're just not working anymore. Tony says that they've been not working for a few days longer than that, and we just don't like to give up, because the both of us are stubborn assholes. Like he can talk!  
I decide I really do have to talk to him about it now, even though we said we wouldn't, because arrangements have to be made. I can't carry him everywhere, and he doesn't want me to anyway.  
When I try, though, he's not very helpful about it, so I just go ahead and get him a chair. Tony customises it a bit for him- he gives it a bow strap and quiver hold, and he even makes a special attachment that Clint can put his bow into, so that he can shoot with one hand, and wheel himself with the other. It's really thoughtful.  
I suppose that it's how Tony says he cares, seeing as he can't do it in person. He can't even bear to be there when I give the chair to Clint.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Clint likes the chair a lot- he uses it when we spar, and if anybody invites him out somewhere, but I can tell that he stops when we aren't looking, when we're not with him. I can tell because his legs get bruised all over, and his arms get even stronger, so I can tell he's been pulling himself about on his arms. He's a fighter, I'll give him that. He shoots better than ever, and that shouldn't even be possible, but it is.  
We find ways to bring him into battle, because he loves it. He's a soldier at heart, and it would crush him if he had to stop fighting. It's a bad plan, but it's important. I have to keep him happy. These times should be the happiest of his life.  
Usually he can't be in the fray, but we'll station him high up- in a helicopter or on a roof, where he likes it. What he likes best of all, is when we get Hulk or Thor to carry him. That doesn't happen very often, and we only do it in the smallest fights. I have Fury assign us things that are well beneath us, just so that Clint can feel strong as always. He's getting weaker though.  
One time, I find the chair abandoned at the base of a staircase. I laugh at first, because it's on the opposite side of the hall to the lift, and it's so typically Clint to get so fed up waiting for a lift that he'd claw his way up the stairs instead. Then I start to wonder if he's made it to the top, and I start to fret that he might have over exerted himself, so I run up the stairs screaming for him. He doesn't answer, and I panic.  
Blind panic.  
I get all the way to the top floor, no Clint. I'm in Tony's workshop, JARVIS is as close to yelling as an AI that can't yell can get, but I don't care. It's dark outside, and it's raining. A lot.  
Clint's there, in little heap, lying down next to the spire of the tower, as high as the floor will allow him. I run over to him, and we're both soaking, soaking wet.  
The rain just falls on us. It just falls, so I shouldn't be able to tell that he's crying.  
I still can.  
I hold him, and I'm shaking, I'm crying too.  
He brushes at my hair, and he knows I hate that, so it must be so that I'll look at his face. So I do, and he speaks to me.  
"I can't climb anymore, Tasha."  
It's a feeble, soft voice. Like he's frightened.  
Then, all of a sudden, he's angry.  
"I can't CLIMB! And that's a part of me, Tash, it's WHO I AM!"  
"You're still climbing, Clint, look at you, you're up here, you're still climbing, look at yourself, you're still going, still going, you're not done, Clint, you're NOT DONE YET!  
"Oh yeah, well what about after this, huh!? What about when my arms go, what about when my eyes go and when my mind starts to go!? One day, Tash, one day SOON, I'm gonna wake up, and I won't be able to shoot anymore. And then who am I, Tash? WHO. AM. I!?"  
"Clint Barton." I say. And I don't say anything more. I hold him until he sleeps, and then I carry him downstairs.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
That night in bed, I don't sleep. I don't share with Clint anymore, because if I move the sheets in the night, and make him uncomfortable, he might seize up, and be unable to fix them. It's trivial, but he has to sleep. If he stops sleeping, it'll get worse.  
I lie there and I think about how well I am handling this. I think about how I know it's not showing on my face, because it never shows on my face, and I wonder if the rest of them might think I don't care. I keep myself distant, none of them really know me, none of them but Clint.  
It HURTS, thinking like that. There's one person in the whole world that knows me, one person I trust, and he's going to die. Soon.  
My insides hurt, but my face doesn't show it. I think it's forgotten how.  
My chest goes tight, I exhale further than the air in my lungs can reach, and they rise up in my chest and get tight, and it's so satisfying, I do it again and again. Then my stomach muscles tense too, and my diaphragm shifts upwards and my whole body goes taut, and it happens again and again and I recognize that I am having a panic attack.   
My breaths are short and shallow, and I'm dizzy, and it feels like I'm going to die.  
I keep going until I pass out, because otherwise I will not sleep, and I have to sleep for Clint.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
The next day, Bruce amputates Clint's legs as a favour.  
It seems kind of strange, but after the few days it takes to get over the operation, he's moving a lot better. He can climb a lot easier now, because he's not carrying the dead weight of his legs. He seems happier. His arms are even stronger, and he's still shooting ever better.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Three days later, his left arm is dead. It stops working.  
I'm concerned that he'll panic again, but he doesn't. He works with Steve and Thor to develop a technique for pulling back his bowstring with his teeth, and he's very good at it. He can't shoot as well as before, but that's just how it goes. He's happy with the new method, and he says he's working to strengthen the muscles in his jaw and neck, so that he'll be able to shoot just as far.  
I know a little better.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
That afternoon, I round everybody up, and tell them he's not got long left. It's not entirely true, because there's still quite a lot of him that works just fine, and he might be paralysed but alive for weeks, I suppose. What I really mean is we won't have long left when he's still like Clint. He'll still be Clint, but he won't shoot arrows, and that means he probably won't make jokes or laugh or anything. If he doesn't think he's Clint, he won't be like Clint. So I warn everybody, that maybe it's time to start   
thinking about saying goodbye.  
I tell them to be subtle, because I'm still pretending it's not really happening.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
On Tuesday, Bruce talks to Clint, in private except for me. I'm going to be there for all of it. Clint is mine, I am Clint's and I won't leave him.  
He doesn't say very much, but he does rather a lot of looking, like he wants to remember Clint in his everything. I think it's weird, but then I realise that I am doing the same. I just have longer to do it.  
He tries talking about his work, but that doesn't work, because it's so damn complicated that I get lost too. Clint laughs and tells him he should "Go nerd it up with Tony!"  
Bruce laughs too, and that's nice. They end up watching Doctor Who, because that's nerdy AND Clint can understand it. Bruce points out all the techno babble that makes no sense, and then tries to think of ways he and Tony might be able to actually make the stuff work. He gets so into it that we can't hear the programme, so Clint starts whining, and pokes Bruce's nose, and Bruce wrinkles his nose, and they end up having an all out poke-war, and Clint's pretty good, considering that he's only got one arm. Eventually the two of them just collapse, giggling.  
   
And I think that they did a very good goodbye.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Steve talks to Clint on Wednesday. They talk about fighting and stuff. And then they talk about loosing friends in combat, and Steve starts to cry. He says it's about Peggy, and Clint rolls his eyes, because he's the one dying, and he probably knows that's the real reason. This goodbye is much more messy, and emotional, and it's one step away from Ice Cream and Love Actually. The one step is Love Actually, because I get them a couple of tubs of Ben and Jerry's out of the freezer.  
Eating ice cream and talking things out tearfully is something that Clint thinks is icky and pointless. He's good about it though. Steve's got the good sense to hold it together and not talk about why he's really crying, and we manage to all pretend that everything's fine.  
I begin to get concerned about how he's ever going to stop crying, but Clint cheers him   
up by trying to eat ice cream from the tub with one hand. Then Steve tries to do it.  
And then I try to do it too.  
It's really hard.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
I was a bit concerned about Thor's goodbye, because Thor is an obnoxious fool, most of the time. But he actually does rather well.  
He takes me and Clint to see the stars.  
We meet him on the roof of Stark tower. I carried Clint, because he can't do much by himself anymore. He takes Clint first, then comes back for me, because he can't carry us both at once.  
He flies us to the top of a mountain, I think. It's bloody freezing, but it's really high up, and it's a bit brilliant. We look at the stars a lot. Nobody says a lot of anything.  
Eventually, Thor sits down and talks to Clint. They talk about their brothers, because both of them had a brother that turned into a supervillain. Clint does not like to talk about his brother, so I never asked, and that's fine.  
He talks about Barney now. Barney Barton... that's a stupid name.  
I think about how I would probably have loved his brother. I think about how if I'd met Barney first, I would have loved him the way I love Clint.  
The means that I would still be a killer.  
I find myself wishing I was, because then this wouldn't hurt, because I'd be somewhere else, anywhere else, laughing over a body and trailing after Barney Barton, and that would be fine, because it wouldn't be this.  
   
Mostly, they're talking about whether or not they should blame themselves. I know from   
hearing them talk that they are to blame, but they are not at fault.  
This is a great goodbye, so I am not going the be here for all of it.   
I leave them and go into the forests, to watch from a distance. I go far enough that I can't hear them. It's dark and cold and I don't care. I sit in a tree, because I like trees, and I look at the stars and I cry. I cry and cry and cry.  
Nobody is allowed to see this, because it is not me, and it is something I should hide, so I am scared when there is a voice from behind me.  
"Beautiful, isn't he?"  
I'm scared out of my mind, but you wouldn't notice, because I am good at not showing when   
I am scared.  
"Hello, spider. Don't be frightened."  
I know the voice, of course I do. Not like I could forget.  
"What do you want, Loki?"  
My voice is impatient and weary.  
"Same thing as you, darling. I want to say goodbye."  
I don't like that. Not at all.  
"You're not to go near him, Loki, you hear me? I won't let you."  
Loki brushes my hair from my face. His fingers are so cold and soft, and it repels me.   
His laugh is gentle and kind, as it has no right to be. I am in the presence of a   
killer, and he is beautiful.  
"Ah, it's endearing that you think you could stop me. But I know. I'm no fool... I will not approach him."  
I look at him, and he is a very sad man. His eyes are soft and his mouth hangs open in   
that unrelenting pain I know too well. He is very pretty and very upset, just like me.  
"Why... why do you even care? You stole his mind, you tried to kill us!"  
He smiles lightly and exhales, condescending, like he knows things I can't even begin to   
understand.  
"I didn't steal his mind. I borrowed it. There's not much I wouldn't give to keep it,   
though. It was glorious."  
I don't appreciate the use of past tense. Clint is still there, and he's still glorious.  
"Was?"  
"Yes, it was a glorious time. To share in such a mind... you don't go back. You'll know   
that better than anyone, Lady Romanov... he shares it so willingly with you. I think it would be most accurate to say that it's... yours."  
I just sort of nod, because I know what he means, and he's right. I know exactly what he means, and it scares me what he might know about me. About us.  
"...I've been watching him, you know. For a long time. And now it's time to stop."  
I'm still looking forwards, quiet and still. When I'm like this, people normally think I'm being thoughtful and pensive, but I am not. It means that my mind is empty. It means   
that I don't even know what I'm supposed to be thinking. I won't be surprised if Loki knows this.  
" You're a lucky woman, Lady Romanov But I can't say I envy you this."  
I still don't talk, because I don't want to and I don't need to and there's just nothing to be said. So I don't. And that's fine.  
" Tell him goodbye from me. Tell him."  
And he's gone like the wind, in green smoke and incense, and I'm more than a little stunned.  
I wonder idly if he'll ever come back, but I realise I already know the answer, and that the answer is no.  
I watch for a while, then hop in to save Clint from a weepy Thor. That is something nobody is equipped to cope with, and Clint shouldn't have to deal with it at the moment. Loki will probably be around to pick up the slack if there's a problem.  
Just after Thor drops us back, I start to deliver Loki's message. I cut myself off halfway through.  
It's not like he'd believe me if I told him.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
After Thursday, it's Friday. And then Saturday. Then Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday again, and Tony has still not spoken to Clint.  
I'm pretty damn angry. This stuff is important, because Clint is fading fast. His arm is still working, god knows how because his jaw has gone wrong. He can still talk most of the time, but sometimes it goes taut or slack, and he's helpless. He can't really shoot anymore, because it takes a lot of jaw control to pull back the string, and for a lot of the time he just doesn't have that. When he can, he's brilliant. What he might lack in strength right now, he's making up for in aim. He could shoot through the eye of a needle, if you gave him an arrow that would fit.  
I venture into Tony's workshop on the Thursday. I am just that furious. JARVIS knows better than to whine at me, and DUM-E gets a kick hen he tries to stop me. I find Tony at the back of the workshop, covered in sweat and oil and grime, looking like he hasn't eaten for days, or slept for weeks.  
I want nothing more than to grab him by the throat here and now, and demand an explanation, but that's not my style. I perch on a workbench and try to look pensive, which probably doesn't work, because since Tony developed the ability to look higher than my chest, he's actually been pretty observant. His memory's freakin' photographic, so he knows all my faces, and what they mean, and he won't forget. I know he knows why I'm here.  
He doesn't look at me. He just talks.  
"I can't do it, Natasha. You know I can't do this stuff."  
"Try." I basically snarl.  
I am angry because I'm doing this, and I'm damn well doing it better than everybody else is, and that doesn't seem fair, because Clint is mine.  
"Can't do it Tash. I can't. I can't DO THIS STUFF!"  
Tony's crying, now. He is angry as I am, and he is crying. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something important, but it just hangs there, and he says nothing. Not a damn word.  
Then he screams. A Tony scream is not like a scream, but more of a roar. A snarl. Pure fury. He kicks at his workbench, and he throws his tools through the windows, and has a tantrum, basically. He keeps screaming long after everything is broken, he keeps on screaming. He sinks to the floor and screams with his hands over his ears, like he's trying to hold his head together.  
Like he's falling apart.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
That night, I sit in Clint's room as he's going to sleep. He likes that, even though I think it's kind of creepy of me. He says we're going to talk soon, and I say that's fine, because if we don't talk soon, we might never get the chance again.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Over the next few days, I visit Tony in his workshop a lot. He's building something for Clint, because that's what he does. It's made of white-gold, because gold-gold looks tacky on most people, and is also impractical.  
We sometimes talk, but mostly we don't.  
He does a lot of welding. I look into the white hot torch without a mask on. It leaves glaring white spots in my vision that are probably seared in for ever. It hurts, and I don't really care.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Clint decides that it's time to talk at twenty five past one in the morning on a drizzly Sunday, three weeks and two days and six hours and four minutes from when he was first diagnosed. He asks me to take him to his bedroom, because it's private and comfortable, and because he wants to make a weak joke about how we only really click in bed. It's a stupid joke to make, not least because it's simply untrue. We click everywhere. We are one and the same. I lay him down on the bed, and he reaches his good arm up and grips it in my hair and does not let go. I let him, and I do not complain.  
He's a little misty, and he's looking over my shoulder like he doesn't want to see me. I sort of understand. I wait until he speaks because he wanted to talk to me, not the other   
way round.  
"I-" He says, eventually "- look like SUCH a dick right now."  
He's waiting for me to laugh, but I don't feel up to that, so I smile and breathe out through my nose, like people do when they almost laugh, but don't quite manage it.  
"Think I left it a bit too late, really. All of this. Now I can't even hold you properly."  
I sort of smirk, because we talk like this, and we don't know how else to function. My reply is as dismissive as the smirk is, but I'm sure that Clint can understand me. He always can, and perhaps that is why we have never done this before. We simply don't need to talk about feelings.  
"We don't DO holding, dumbass."  
But then I go ahead and hold him anyway.  
We sit there for a long time. I hold him, and he grabs onto whatever part of me he can reach. I rock us gently together, and I'm sure that I cry for a bit. I wonder if this is what Clint meant by talking.  
It probably isn't, but it's just as good.  
We're not the type to talk. We think our love. We live and breathe it. We are our love.   
That's all we need.  
The sun starts to rise, and I realise that we have been like this all night. I cling to   
Clint even tighter.  
I can tell that he wants to say something, but that he can't bear to speak. I just sort of... know. I decide to break the silence for him.  
"What is it, Clint? Spit it out!"  
He works up to speaking for a bit.  
"Tash... y..you know how this is getting worse, and stuff? Like, about my legs and my   
arms and everything."  
I don't respond to the question because it's not like I'll have missed it.  
"Before too long... I'm going to stop being me. For a long while I am just going to be a sack of meat and flesh and nothing much else at all. And.. that will make you sad, and that makes me... sad..."  
I know what he is asking me, so I shove a hand over his mouth.  
"Oh Clint... geez, why are you even asking me this?"  
It takes a lot of work for him to use his fingers at the moment, and he can't be bothered right now, so he just swats at my hand and I move it.  
"Sorry, sorry Tash. Shouldn't've asked, that was out of line. I just.. I just don't want to die being a total pain in everyone's a-mmfffph!"  
I shove my hand over his mouth again.  
"For gods sakes, I meant... why did you think you had to ask? Why did you think I didn't know..?"  
It sounds quite profound, and we just sit there for a bit.  
"Oh you did NOT just lick my hand!" I yell, and we fall over each other in giggles.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Tony busts in at lunch time, because he's finished the thing for Clint, and also because we've been in bed for ages and we should probably think about getting up.  
It turns out that the thing he's made is a device that Clint can put his arm into, that will move it for him. It's a lot like the arm of Tony's suit, only more mobile, and much simpler. There's an AI in charge of it, who's called IMYA. She's a she, and she's kind of an asshole, and I'm pretty sure that's deliberate. It takes Clint a while to get used to it, but when he does, he can shoot further than he can see.  
This is a good thing, but it is also a bad thing.  
It is a bad thing because people should not be able to do that, and it makes Clint feel less Clint-y.  
It is a good thing because we can make Tony fetch the arrows over and over.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
His mind starts to fade pretty soon after that.  
His short term memory is pretty good, but he starts to forget things too. He gets confused a lot, particularly by Thor.  
He starts to ask me what things are- just normal things, household objects. One time he has to ask me what the shower is called. Another, he can remember what a spoon is, but it takes me an hour to get him to understand what it's for. It's very tiring.  
After a while, he starts to forget people, too. Every so often, he has to ask me who Steve is, or who Bruce is. The first time Clint forgets him, it causes so much upset that he hulks out. I spend a long time trying to explain to Clint what's happening. He remembers halfway through the explanation, then looks at me like I'm an idiot.  
I have to operate IMYA for him most of the time, because he's got no idea. Sometimes he forgets about his illness for a while, and calls out to me in a big panic, because he has no legs and can't move his arms.  
The three things that matter to him most, though, he remembers always.  
His bow and his arrows.  
The third is me.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
He forgets me a few days later.  
It doesn't last for long, but it's awful.  
I am helping him out of bed, and he looks at me and he's a little bit scared, but he clearly likes what he sees. Which I suppose is actually very flattering, because he thinks that I am beautiful and attractive, even though he does not know me at all.  
"W-what are you? Who? Wha- oh, Tasha. Right."  
And that's all it really is. I am forgotten for a mere few seconds.  
But those seconds last forever.  
It hurts more than anything, but I will not do it yet, because there is still such a lot of Clint left in there, and he is still happy, and because I am not so self centred as to think that I define him.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
That night, I go in to Clint's room when he is asleep. He needs pills to help him sleep now, so I know he will not wake.  
I straddle his waist, because I can see him better that way.  
I look at him, and I think about what is going to happen very, very soon.  
When he is asleep, he is my Clint again. He is Clint Barton, Hawkeye, Avenger, and mine.   
When he is awake, he is not mine anymore. He belongs to his bow and his arrows, and nothing else, because he can remember those, and not me.  
His face is just the same, and I keep his hair the way he likes to have it- all ruffled and spiked up, because he has always been a bit vain, and I am going to indulge that, because it's a part of him, and I need to keep the parts of him that I can.  
In his sleep he is relaxed and gentle. His face is not wracked by the constant confusion that everyday life now brings him. His brow is not furrowed, like it is when he is trying to comprehend a world that he can only half remember.  
I try to keep that in my head, so that I can remember why I am doing this. I can't let this soft calm Clint into my heart, because that will cloud my judgement. I have to think about how much of him is him, and weigh it up against how much of him is confused and hurt and upset and rotting away.  
But because I am a sadist, I lean forward, and press myself up against the chest, and feel the beat-beat-beat of his heart.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
Four days later, we go out to test just how far Clint can fire now that he's IMYA assisted.  
He's brilliant. He can fire really, really far, so far that we have somebody stationed where he's aiming to collect the arrows, because that's quicker than looking for them afterwards.  
That's mostly me, because I am looking for something, although I will not tell them what.  
We have a radio system- they tell me what he's aiming for, and I tell them when he hits.  
Except that one time, about halfway through the day, he doesn't hit.  
   
I don't tell them. I tell them he was dead on as always.  
He shoots again.  
He doesn't hit.  
In fact, he's even further out this time.  
   
I still don't tell them. I let Clint fire his whole quiver, and I tell them that he hit perfectly with all of them, because I am being kind.  
I make my way back, and I know what is going to happen next.  
I just really, really wish I didn't.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
I get back to the team, and I don't have time to explain properly. I shove a small slip of paper into Tony's hand as I pass him. There are only two words on it, so I can only hope that they will understand.  
I'm pretty sure that they will.  
This is a good time. How happy all of us are. This is right, I decide. I am certain.  
   
Then I walk up to Clint, and I shoot him in the head.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
I will not tell them that it was assisted suicide, because I can't prove it, and probably, in technical terms, it wasn't.  
   
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o  
   
On 28th August, I am arrested for the deliberate and premeditated murder of Clint Barton.  
I plead guilty.  
I do not look back.


End file.
